Scenting possibilities
by Brad'sPyjamas
Summary: Sherlock had always thought that he was incapable of bonding and had never had any reason to question his assumption. Until now, that is ... This is the first of my prequels to "Little things" and, thus, is Johnlock. Please note Chapters 2 & 3 contain mature scenes of a sexy nature. That's supposed to be a warning, although I think of it more as a promise :)
1. Chapter 1

**Author's note: **This is Omegaverse. Consensual Omegaverse but Omegaverse nonetheless - consider yourselves warned. Also, I do not own Sherlock, I don't intend any copyright infringement and I'm not making any money. I'm having a heck of a lot odd fun though :)

* * *

_This is not supposed to be possible_, Sherlock tells himself as he stares out the window of the cab, _not possible at all_. His heart is racing and he's struggling to keep his breathing controlled; each inhalation brings tantalising wafts of the scent – a mix of tannin, gun oil and deep woods – that is uniquely John's but is now emanating from his own skin and sending his senses into overdrive.

_This is not who I thought I was, not how I thought I worked, not … just not …._ He shakes his head. The loss of his words, the fracturing of his train of thought, is enough to convince him that this is real; not just a figment of his imagination brought on by days without sleep, the after effects of partial asphyxiation and falling just over six foot onto a hard wooden floor. Even in the depths of the cocaine lows he's never found himself unable to think before and there can only be one explanation for this sudden, distressing, aberration:  
The doctors, the psychologists and the psychoanalysts were wrong. They misdiagnosed a child's coping mechanism when the world hurt too much for a rare medical condition and no-one, least of all him, has ever questioned it.

How stupid he has been! How idiotic! He's allowed his pride in the fact that he believed himself to be other, set apart from the masses and their sentimental, hormone driven ridiculousness to blind him to the fact that he isn't broken at all, he just hadn't ever found the person who could switch him on. Because he hadn't yet found John.

John, the man who says brilliant where everyone else says piss off. The man who doesn't flinch when he finds eyeballs in the fridge, who giggles at crime scenes and, somehow, seems to instinctively understand what Sherlock means despite what he's actually saying and doing. The man who makes Sherlock feel alive in ways he's hasn't felt since he was a very small child and the man … oh God, the man who has been taken from him and might, even as Sherlock wills the cab to go faster, be being removed from the world altogether, before Sherlock has a chance to tell him how extraordinary he is.

Had they known, these thieves of his future, what they were taking? Had they observed what he, in his enforced naivety, had not seen and understood what their actions would do? Had they realised the effect the maelstrom of feelings the loss of John has called up inside him is having? Sherlock drops his head into his hands, clutching at his temples in an effort to regain some control, to marshal the emotions he has no frame of reference for and to re-dress himself in the Sherlock Holmes he's spent years perfecting, the Sherlock Holmes that does not feel and therefore cannot be damaged by the feelings or actions of others.

As the cab moves free of the traffic and its speed begins to pick up the knowledge that he is almost where John is allows him to find the calm inside that he so desperately needs. Rapidly he bundles the strands of fear, desire, desperation and concern away into the room of his mind palace that is - already, when did that happen? – exclusively John's and closes, but does not lock, the door. He will return once John is safe and they are alone and he can try and explain and understand and … he grits his teeth and forces the door closed once again and then brings himself back to the world so fast it leaves him dizzy. The emotions are still there, signalling from behind the door and making a corner of his mind itch but it is subdued enough that he can focus. Three minutes later, when he steps out of the cab and slinks into the tramway he looks as calm and unruffled as usual; not even Mycroft could tell his world has been turned upside down.

oOo

His head hurts, his mouth is dry and, as he tries to force his eyes open and finds himself thinking, _I don't think we're in Kansas any more, Toto_, he realises he's at least partly concussed. A problem which he pushes to the back of the seething cauldron that is currently his mind when a voice from the darkness - one he recognises from the Chinese circus - begins spouting off crap about books and him being Sherlock and then he remembers exactly how he ended up …. Where the hell is he?

A moan from his left tells him quite succinctly that poor Sarah has been, quite literally, caught up in this mess as well and if he wasn't so convinced that it was going to get them both killed, he'd have giggled himself stupid over the fact that a gang that was intelligent enough to smuggle antiquities into the UK without getting caught weren't capable of performing even a perfunctory search for a person on google. _Definitely concussed_, he thinks when the world lurches as he tries in vain to find a way of explaining that this really is a case of mistaken identity without sounding like he's making pathetic excuses.

And where is Sherlock? Did they get him too and just leave him or… _Oh God_, John realises frantically, _they think Sherlock's me!_ _They don't think he matters!_ _What if they've already killed him, simply because he was in the way?_ The nausea from the head wound surges again at that thought and, for a moment, John thinks he's actually going to vomit. Instead he's distracted by the bastards picking Sarah up and depositing her in front of the bloody arrow contraption and he heaves in a gasp of air, which suddenly smells of coffee, formaldehyde and the strangely enticing mix of orange zest and malt that is Sherlock's shampoo. _Oh dear Lord, how hard did they hit me that I've started hallucinating smells?_

He's halfway through another attempt to convince the smugglers that he really doesn't have the fuckking pin or whatever the hell it is they are so keen to kill for when Sherlock's voice comes out of the darkness and a small part of him wants to sob with relief. Except the sand is still pouring and Sarah is still about to be pierced by four foot of sharpened wood and he's trying to get to her but he's falling and yet, somehow, he's managed to knock the frame and has very nearly killed Sherlock instead. And then it's over and they're safe and in his relief he finds himself saying something inane to Sarah about the next date being better even as he's thinking that there won't be a next date because if he can't have Sherlock he doesn't want anyone.

oOo

He is completely in control right up until the point he actually touches John and realises that the tang of copper in the air he can practically taste is coming from the bloody wound on the left side of John's head.

'You're hurt!'

'Just a head wound. They always look worse than they are.' John's slurring his words slightly but still trying to get up even though Sherlock's barely got half the knots undone.

'Stay still, John,' he commands and John freezes under his hands. 'Better,' he murmurs, although he's not sure if he's asking or telling and neither, it seems, is John, who makes a strange half noise in the back of his throat and then nods slightly.

In the background he can hear Dimmock talking to Sarah and he's aware of other police officers filing into the place, spreading out, searching for clues but he tunes them out, focusing on the soft drag of John's breath – slightly too fast for normal respiration but far too slow for a panic attack – the way his eyelids are fluttering and the slight twitches of his mouth. It's taking all of his will power not to just lean down and press his nose to John's temple, press his lips to the pulse in his neck and …. At that moment the final knot comes undone and he pushes those desires way, concentrates on helping John to his feet, chaffing at his wrists to help the circulation return.

'How do you feel?' It's Sarah, appearing beside them and offering John a soft smile. A smile that shrieks in Sherlock's brain like fingernails down a blackboard and he's hard pressed not to snarl and shove her away. He settles for sharing a smile of his own that isn't really a smile at all and, after running his hands over John's arms and earning himself a look of confusion from both of them, he stalks away towards the mouth of the tramway, trying to clear his nostrils of the scent of himself that's now rolling off John in waves and making him want to … well, to do everything, all at once.

Except, does he? Really? He knows, objectively, that the scent changes in both of them are a product of the growing feelings they are developing for each other, rather than the other way round but this intensity is, not frightening exactly but … oh who is trying to kid, it is frightening, frightening in the way he trusts it implicitly. Everything about this situation is telling him that this was meant to be, that he and John are meant for each other but can it really be true? And even if it is, does it really matter?

At this point he still has a choice.

Does he really want to be bound body and mind, tied to one person for ever more? Glancing over his shoulder to see John still occupied by Dimmock and Sarah he ducks into a patch of deeper shadow and retreats into his head. That John's scent has changed so noticeably, and completely in tandem with his own, means he doesn't have the luxury of waiting until they get home to think about things. If he isn't going to pursue this he has to decide now.

He blinks rapidly as the last two months, the entirety of the time he has known John, floods into his consciousness and he feels his mouth curl into a smile of its own volition as he notes all the little things that John has brought into his life that he hadn't known he was missing; the way John's smile lights up his whole face and how warm it makes Sherlock feel, knowing he's been the one to put it there; all those cups of coffee and slices of toast that he hadn't known he wanted or needed and the fact there is always honey on the toast despite Sherlock never having mentioned liking it and there having been none in the flat when John moved in; the sense of joy that bursts in his gut when John freely offers praise of his skills; the jolt of pleasure and something else that floods through him every time they laugh together, eyes locked and pulses racing. And that indefinable sense of being _safe_, being _home_ that being with John gives him, has been giving him from almost the first moment they met.

Sherlock swallows hard, trying to ensure none of his thoughts show on his face as he falls into step behind Sarah and John as he escorts her to a taxi, because now he knows with full certainty that he wants this bond, wants it very badly indeed.

Yet he's ignored all the signs until now, refused to accept what had been obvious from even a cursory examination of events and that was so unlike him it made his breathing hitch. Why had he lied to himself for so long? Why had he chosen not to notice anything until this evening? _Because there are no guarantees this will work_ the bit of his mind that always sounded like Mycroft pointed out. _Because this is only the beginning of what could be a very long process and there is no way to know if your mutual attraction will blossom or implode_. _No way to know if you'll actually complete the bond_. Which is enough to make Sherlock feel sick.

If they starts this and it doesn't work then John will leave and he … he can't bear that. He can't lose him … No. Just no! It isn't to be thought of. And that is what will happen if they decide to try and complete the bond and it fails. No friendship survives that, no matter what some people might say. He saw what happened to Mycroft, saw him lose the person he'd come to rely on after …

Sherlock shakes his head again, forcing the memories down and away. He will not think of that, of him. Not now, not even. And he won't risk what he has with John either. He'll just have to stay silent, hold the feelings inside and ignore the tantalising promise in the scent of only man he's ever, honestly, called friend and now, apparently …

'… were you hurt, Sherlock? Sherlock!'

'What? Oh! Finally ready then?' He blusters at John who is now at his side, looking at him steadily, face a mix of tiredness and worry that makes Sherlock instinctively soften his tone. 'I'm not hurt, John. Just thinking. Let's go.'

John's face clears slightly and he nods, wincing at the movement and Sherlock finds his stomach clenching uncomfortably at the look of pain in his eyes. He reaches out as he sees John sway, one hand slipping under John's elbow, the other steadying his lower back and John leans into the hold with a sigh that makes Sherlock's mouth go dry and his hands tighten involuntarily.

'Should I be insisting on a visit to hospital?'

'Not unless you want my eternal enmity,' John angles his head up slowly, shooting a lopsided grin at Sherlock, 'I can't think of anything worse than A&E on a Friday night.'

'Home it is then,' Sherlock murmurs, pulling his eyes from John's lips long enough to steer them both towards their cab. John hums his consent, face relaxing once they're seated, somehow right next to one another; Sherlock's arm all the way round John's back, good side of John's head resting on Sherlock's shoulder.

'Don't go to sleep,' Sherlock mutters, fighting the urge to bury his nose in John's hair and just breathe him in, 'you're probably concussed.'

'I think I am,' John's voice is a little deeper than normal, a slight tremor to his words, 'because you smell … your scent has … I must be imagining …'

His voice trails off and he lifts his head again, looking up at Sherlock with wide eyes, tongue flickering over dry lips. Sherlock realises he's mimicking the action when John's pupils followed the motion, dilating slightly as they do. Sherlock means to be strong, to resist his own desires and to agree that John is delusional from the injury but what actually comes out of his traitorous mouth is, 'Yours has too.'

'So you …' John blinks, swallows and then lowers his head to Sherlock's shoulder again, burying his nose in Sherlock's chest and pressing a shaky hand over Sherlock's heart. 'These feelings. This isn't just me then?'

'No. I ...' Sherlock can't find the words, instead giving in and lowering his nose to John's hair, filling his lungs with the scent that had called to him the minute it hit his nose all those weeks ago at Bart's and now - smelling even sweeter, mixed as it is with his own – telling him so emphatically that this is really happening and will continue to do so if he allows it to.

If … is there really an if? His rationality may be telling him not to risk what he already has, not to damage the best thing that has happened to him since his seven year old self turned his back on human frailty, but his heart is very clear about what it wants and his body seems to be firmly under its control; arms snaking more firmly round John's body, fingers sliding under John's coat and jumper, stroking, needing to feel, to map, to …

'Oh God, Sherlock,' John's voice is deliciously rough, 'we shouldn't …' his hands slip inside Sherlock's coat, contradicting his words as they move over Sherlock's chest, probing the gaps between his shirt buttons, 'but I want … I want this very much.' He pauses and Sherlock can almost hear the thought ping into John's head. 'But I thought you didn't … When you said you couldn't ... I thought you just meant that I wasn't … and yet ...'

Sherlock feels John's nose begin nuzzling the exposed edge of his collar bone as he inhales and then he shifts so he can look straight at Sherlock, breath coming in hard-edged gasps.

'You do want me, you feel the attraction too. You _have_ to, for your scent to have begun to change. So what was all that about back when we first met, Sherlock? The whole _married to my work, all just transport, not capable of forming emotional attachments_ spiel? I never bought it, you know. I thought it was one of your rare attempts to be kind, letting me down gently because you didn't want me. Except now you clearly do. So I need you to explain, Sherlock. I need you to tell me why you said what you did and whether you really want to go down this road? Because … I need you to be sure.'

John drops his head again, so Sherlock can't read his face but his fingers start circling Sherlock's shirt button, not undoing but fiddling and that one tiny act of nervousness pushes all of Sherlock's fears right to the back of his mind. He pulls his hand off John's stomach to cup John's jaw, gently urging his face back up.

'I wasn't trying to be kind, John. I was telling you the truth,' John opens his mouth, but Sherlock presses a finger over his lips. 'Let me finish, please. _Yes_, I knew you'd jumped to the wrong conclusion. And yes, I could have corrected you. But I didn't. I didn't because … because I didn't think it would matter since nothing would ever happen that would contradict your belief. But it matters now because it has and it's you and you don't believe I'm serious. Yet I am.

'I need you to understand that I genuinely didn't think my body was capable of doing this. Genuinely believed that I wasn't capable of the emotions required … I'm sure I can get hold of the medical reports if you want to see them. But tonight! Tonight when I found you were gone and then here, earlier, when I thought for a moment I wasn't going to be in time …'

Sherlock closes his eyes briefly, trying to reorder his thoughts into something resembling coherence in the maelstrom of all the sensations '… something changed, John. I was able to recognise what has been happening to me, to us, all along. I've been ignoring the signs because I didn't think they were real but they were. They are ...' He pauses, watching John's face, watching his words register in the minute fluttering of John's eyelashes, the slight tightening of his jaw, the shallowness of his breath, 'I want you, John. I think I've wanted you from the beginning and I … God help me I want us to try. Is … is that enough?'

John's hands tighten their hold on Sherlock's shirt.

'Yes,' the word is little more than a susurrus as John exhales but it is spoken and Sherlock moved to capture it with his mouth before he's thought about his actions, only reining himself in when his lips are millimetres from John's.

'Not here,' he says, gritting his teeth as he pulls back, the mewl of loss issuing from John's throat making him absurdly happy. 'I won't do this in public.'

John squeezes his eyelids together before looking out of the window, hands now completely still but remaining tangled in Sherlock's clothes, 'No, I don't suppose you will. Well, we're almost home, anyhow.'

'Good.' Sherlock's tone is so emphatic it startles a laugh out of John and the tension between them changes, taking on an edge of need that Sherlock has never experienced before. If it was anyone but John eliciting such a response from him he would be frightened by the intensity.

As it is, by the time they've pulled up at 221B and paid the cabbie Sherlock is practically vibrating with the desire to touch John in a manner he's never, ever wanted to touch anyone else and, judging by the way John's hands are shaking as he unlocks the door, the feeling is more than mutual. Although John clearly _has _done such things before. With a variety of people who, given most of them were women and, from the few things John had said about his previous relationships, were not chosen for any biological compatibility. Which would indicate John has never expected to find anyone to bond with.

Except that idea is patently absurd. How could a man like John not think an alpha would want him? Or was the idea of belonging to an alpha in that way so abhorrent to John that he'd actively avoided it until now? Maybe he'd initially been so repulsed by Sherlock physically that the thought they might actually end up like this, in the first stages of the bonding process, hadn't even occurred to him when he'd said he'd move in. What if …?

'If you don't stop thinking for minute you're going to give yourself a migraine.'

John is in front of him again, fingers entwining warmly with his own as his mouth curls in a cautious smile, 'I can practically hear the panic ricocheting around in there.'

'I am _not_ panicking,' Sherlock huffs, wondering whether it's John's pheromones that have caused him not to notice the transit from street to living room or if he is actually being overwhelmed by his own emotions, 'I'm simply … How do I put this? ... I just …'

'Ask me,' John interrupts, thumbs rubbing over the backs of Sherlock's hands. 'Take a deep breath and ask me about whatever it is that's got you strung tighter than your violin.'

Sherlock looks at John, really looks at him, and his throat closes off. How can this man want him? John is kind, caring, warm. He makes an effort for people and he is good - a genuinely good man who does what the thinks is right at any given time and damn the consequences – whereas he …. If there is any label that he can genuinely apply to himself that is actually true it most certainly isn't good.

'Why?' is what finally comes out of his mouth, 'Why me?'

'You … you really don't know, do you? You see through everyone else in seconds yet you have no idea how they see you.'

John is looking at him as if he's the eighth wonder of the world and Sherlock feels the still unaccustomed warmth in the pit of his stomach that John's admiring gaze always generates.

'You're mesmerising, Sherlock. Everything about you is mesmerizing; how you think, what you do, why you do it! There's something in you that calls to me – calls to other people too, despite your best efforts on that score – something that makes me want to be the one who makes you smile, makes you laugh. I want to get into that head of yours and for you never to be able to get me out again. I ... I've never met anyone like you Sherlock, anyone that could fire me, bring me to life the way you do. I never expected to find anyone I cared about like this, never mind anyone I _wanted_ so badly and it frightens me. Just as much as I think it frightens you. But …' John's mouth quirks as he steps right into Sherlock's personal space, 'you said dangerous and here I am and this … taking _this_ step is far more dangerous than just shooting some deranged cabbie or getting kidnapped by a bunch of murderous Chinese smugglers. Because if this goes wrong, if you decide this sort of thing really isn't for you then I … I'll have to leave and … I'm not sure if I could cope with giving you up.'

'Me? You think _I'm_ going to change my mind?'

John checks at the incredulity in Sherlock's voice but then squares his jaw and speaks again.

'Yes, you. You, who, until tonight, didn't think they were physically capable of bonding. You, who, clearly, wasn't even going to mention you'd noticed my scent change until I spoke of yours. You, who tells people you're a high-functioning sociopath to keep them so far past arms length they may as well be on the next continent! Even if we ignore the fact that you've never tried to push me away, not really, I still can't see how … how someone so fucking smart, someone who gets bored at the drop of a hat and views 99% of the human race with complete distain, could possibly maintain an interest, sexual or otherwise, in a mentally unstable, scarred ex-soldier who can barely hold down a locum job at a GP surgery, never mind keep up with you when you're in full flow!' John's chest is heaving, his eyes glistening but he doesn't move away, doesn't step back to give Sherlock room to think, to breath. 'Yet I don't care. This change,' he inhales deeply, 'in both of us. This is real. You've said you want to try and I believe you mean it. I know what I want so I'll take what you're offering and as for what happens next … I'll trust to hope. I'd be a fool not to.'

'John, I … you …' Sherlock stares into John's eyes, heart pounding as those words run through his head on loop. He knows - can feel it in himself - that if he does this now, if he lets himself go, there will be no turning back from it, no turning away. But John, despite what he's just said, John can change his mind. And when he realises just how little Sherlock knows about the pleasures of the flesh, realises exactly how inept Sherlock is at expressing the feelings he's forgotten he's capable of ... will whatever it is John's feeling be enough to keep him here, keep them together?

John has been being absolutely truthful, Sherlock knows - just as he knows he wants to be John's in every possible way - but still something is niggling at him, telling him not to trust the certainty. There must be something else, something he hasn't factored in that is making him nervous still, something ... John tilts his head, watching Sherlock intently and the movement causes the dried blood round his wound to glint dully in the moonlight.

The head wound! Of course!

John is, currently, compromised. There's a chance that the injury has affected his thoughts and his emotions, that none of what he's feeling now is real.

'Sherlock?'

'Your head,' Sherlock inclines his own, eyes roaming over the bloodied bump, 'you're hurt, remember.'

'I've wanted you since the moment I first laid eyes on you, Sherlock,' John's smile is as gentle as is it is knowing. 'A bit of pistol whipping isn't going to change anything.'

'From the … Oh!' Sherlock is aware he's gaping ridiculously at that revelation. Surprisingly he doesn't care.

'Yeah, well, I've said my piece now,' John's fingers are tightening round Sherlock's as he speaks, 'and I'm finding it increasingly difficult to just stand here and look at you. So please, either kiss me or tell me to piss off.'

Sherlock tugs on their hands, pulling John flush to his chest, before letting go and cradling him, one hand at the nape of his neck and the other tight round his waist. John's hands fly inside his coat and up his back immediately, the heat of his palms bleeding through the thin fabric of the shirt, making Sherlock shiver with pleasure and lust.

'I may be a more than a little rusty, so you'll have to bear with me,' he murmurs, watching John's pupils dilate fully as his voice rumbles through them both.

Then, finally, when the need to _taste_ has burned away all the remaining fear, burned away all the doubt and incinerated every other thought in his head, he drops his mouth to John's and kisses him.

* * *

META NOTES:

1) As mentioned in the tags this isn't standard alpha/beta/omega dynamics. Since I am incapable of writing dub/non-con sex, I've created my own version of Omegaverse, complete with consensual (if scientifically dubious) biology and chemistry – yup, an AU of an AU, isn't life wonderful *grins* If you want the full background it is a link to it on my profile page.  
2) I'm trying to stick to cannon timing for all the events in the show (well all the ones that make sense with Sherlock and John as Sherlock AND John) and fitting the bonding process around it. As such I've based a lot of this 'verse around the timeline the fabulous Lyrical Sky spent hours mapping out and which you can find if you search her name on AO3, please go and tell her she's wonderful. From that, the kidnapping of John and Sarah in the Blind Banker took place on 26th March 2010, which was a Friday, therefore John's comment about the A&E isn't just poetic licence.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's note: **This is Omegaverse. Consensual Omegaverse but Omegaverse nonetheless - consider yourselves warned. Also, I do not own Sherlock, I don't intend any copyright infringement and I'm not making any money. I'm having a heck of a lot odd fun though :)

* * *

This is nothing like Sherlock remembers from those few times Victor kissed him in an attempt to get a reaction. Up until now - if he's ever had cause to think of kissing in relation to himself at all - he's thought it pleasant enough in its way. If there was nothing better to do. Up to and including cataloguing the drying speed of different varieties of paints.

But this?

How had he not known it was possible for such sensations to be elicited just from the press of lip on lip? How can it cause such magnification of his nerves, this simple slip and slide of gentle contact? Does it matter that it's sending tremors through his entire body? It is … he tries to focus, to analyse, to understand, but his lips are a blazing conflagration, sending liquid fire pulsing through his veins and powering the fireworks that are filling his head and preventing rational thought. And John's tongue! Each caress, each gentle exploration of his mouth causing explosions in his gut and sending desire spiralling downward, pooling in his groin. He wants, no he _needs_, to map John's mouth, needs to suck and lick and taste every millimetre of John's skin yet he's incapable of doing anything other than melting into John, into this kiss he can barely process, let alone control. It's all he can do to stay upright on muscles that have somehow been turned to jelly by John's skilful ministrations.

It could be seconds or minutes or hours before the kiss is broken, Sherlock can't tell and doesn't care. He just wants John's mouth back on his own; wants to drown in the sensations that make him feel alive in a way only cases and cocaine have managed before now. But John stops Sherlock bringing their mouths back together with gentle fingertips over Sherlock's parted lips. John's eyes are huge and dark as his gaze roves over every inch of Sherlock's face but there's an element of consideration that makes apprehension prickle deep in Sherlock's stomach.

'Am I …' Sherlock swallows the rest of that deeply pathetic sentence and tries again. 'Is something wrong?'

John's smile is vivid as he runs his thumb over Sherlock's jaw. 'Far from it. I just wanted to make sure you were … well, alright I suppose.'

Sherlock twists his head, capturing John's thumb with his teeth and sucking, generating a hard edged inhalation from John that makes the hair stand up on Sherlock's neck and arms.

'I may not have your vast practical experience of this sort of thing,' Sherlock speaks round John's digit, words coming out muffled and more than a little ragged, 'but I don't need to be coddled. I want you to …' he thinks fast, wanting to find the words that will dispel John's apparent need to treat him like a blushing virgin and is unable to suppress a smirk when he remembers a throw away comment he once heard, 'I want you to show me _exactly _how you earned your reputation across those three continents.'

'Where did you … Mike?' John's face and neck turn a colour normally associated with severe sunburn and Sherlock finds it strangely enticing, unable to stop himself curling his tongue round John's still captive thumb as he nods his confirmation.

'I'll think about killing him later,' John practically growls, pupils now completely blown as Sherlock's tongue continues to dance and tease, '_after_I've complied with your request.'

Then the thumb is gone and Sherlock's coat is being dragged from his shoulders even as John's mouth attaches to the pulse point under his left ear. Once again Sherlock gives himself up to John, only mildly concerned that the sobbing moans echoing through the flat are coming from his own throat as his shirt goes the same way and John's fingers brush over his bare chest, once, twice and then John dips and his mouth is on Sherlock's nipple and …

'Oh God! … Jesus! … John!' Sherlock's hands scrabble for purchase, clutching at John's shoulders, arms and back as his whole body jerks and vibrates. If he thought the noises coming out of his mouth had been embarrassing before then now - if he even had one brain cell left available to care - now he would have to classify them as mortifying. Except they're not because there is definitely a feedback loop going on between John's actions and his reactions as every moan and cry Sherlock makes results in John doing something different, tongue either laving or flicking the now achingly hard nub of his nipple or teeth nipping at flushed skin around it. And then John's still saliva damp thumb is on Sherlock's other nipple, pressing and circling and …

'John! I … I, Oh!' Sherlock is subsumed by sensations; the wet heat of John's mouth, the callused pads of his fingers, the drag of his breath and the press of his body. Each and every minute touch, flick or suck making his cock throb and balls tighten and he can feel the pressure beginning to build inside, coiling and flexing deep within and he's shaking and gasping and … and he needs ….

He needs to touch, to taste, to give as well as receive and he finds himself tugging somewhat haphazardly at John's shirt, wanting John's skin under his hands but unable to co-ordinate himself enough to even make an attempt on the buttons.

'John! … please…. please …' he's not really sure what he's asking for but knows he needs more than what John's giving him. He tries to find some words. Any words but all he manages is, 'I want … I can't … there's so much ….'

John licks a stripe from Sherlock's nipple to his neck and finally Sherlock manages to get his hands to behave enough to grab John's arse, pulling them flush against each other; grinding their erections together and making them both cry out.

'God, Sherlock. You're fantastic …wonderful … gorgeous,' John murmurs into the hollow of Sherlock's collarbone as Sherlock bucks, seeking more wonderful friction, 'but I'm too old, too tired and too bruised to do any more of this out here.'

'You're not old,' Sherlock slurs, sagging against the wall as John steps away, still fully clothed and staring with unabashed hunger at Sherlock's half naked body. 'You're …'

His words fail again as John takes one step backward, then another, eyes sparking with mischief and delight as he begins to unbutton his shirt. 'Come on, Sherlock,' he's moving faster now, towards the stairs, shirt hitting the floor as Sherlock has to turn to keep his eyes on him. 'Come to bed with me.'

And then John's gone from Sherlock's sight and it's as much as he can do to scramble round the corner in an attempt at pursuit, legs feeling like they did the first time he'd tried to walk after being in bed with pneumonia for a week.

'John!' he calls, but all he gets in response is a glorious peal of laughter from the top of the stairs that makes his suit trousers feel even more viciously restrictive than they already were. When he finally makes it to the top of the stairs and almost trips over John's jeans he gives in and tries to strip his own trousers off.

It takes him three goes to get the button of his fly undone and his brain takes advantage of his fumbling to remind him just how foolish he's being; that not only is he risking his current relationship with John but also his life as a whole. Because honestly, can this Sherlock, the Sherlock standing here now - so consumed with need, with want, with emotions he can't name that he can't even get his trousers undone - also continue to be the Sherlock Holmes who is emotionally and physically apart enough from the rest of the world to see what others miss, to analyse without sentiment and thus solve the unsolvable? Is he really willing to open the doors in his psyche that he's spent the majority of his life keeping sealed shut and become the Sherlock that John so clearly sees behind the façade? Can he accept the consequences if he finds that he is unable to ever close them again, should the need arise?

He freezes, desire warring with the unease and confusion that are pushing through the fog of pheromones and lust. He wants yet he doesn't want, he needs but what he needs he cannot name and, laced all through his muddled threads of consciousness, there are the scents. The scent of John on him, the scent of him on John and the almost scent, inside his head but no less real to him, of what they will both smell like when they complete the bond. It's intoxicating and terrifying in equal measure and yet it's fading, the longer he stands here, undecided. Because they haven't yet bonded, may never bond because the minutes are ticking by while he stands here and John is going to lose patience, get fed up. If he doesn't move soon John's going to think he's changed his mind.

Has he?

Should he?

Can he really do this?

He's struggling for breath, his heart is pounding and finds himself sliding back inside his head, back and down, into dark recesses long ago abandoned, looking at doors he shut long ago until ….

A face appears in his mind, a face he hasn't pictured for years, a face he'd almost convinced himself he'd purged completely; cobalt blue eyes, wild chestnut curls and a smile that could light up the depths of the ocean. A sob wells in his chest as the eyes soften, the mouth opens and he hears:

_Yes, Lock, you can. You can do this. You can be both._

The words echo though his head and his chest tightens with gratitude unshared that he thought he'd buried so deep he'd never feel again. But he is feeling it and he's remembering all the joy and the laughter and the times when he thought his whole life would be a blur of happiness and, finally, he understands what he's been running away from for all these years. For a moment he is tempted to run again, run hard and fast and never look back so that there is no possibility that he could ever be hurt again. Except …

_You've not been able to delete me, Lock. You won't be able to delete him. Don't waste the greatest gift you've ever been given. Try. Please, Lock. For me. Just try._

Sherlock blinks rapidly as the image fades and he finds his hands outstretched, reaching for what was lost long ago.

'For you, I will try,' he whispers after he's taken a breath so deep the constriction on his lungs is broken as if it were never there, 'for you and for John.'

His hands are steady as he comes back to himself and there are no more mishaps removing trousers, shoes and socks. He doesn't really notice what he's doing, instead focusing solely on locking down those memories, burying them as deep as he can in the pits of his mind palace and securing them with every mental bar and lock he has in his arsenal.

For there may be a time when he will be ready to face that event, the catalyst for all that he has become, but it is not this day. He has no time for sorrow or remembrance when John is waiting for him. As the final bar drops into place his face clears, mind once again free of the taint of hurt and loss and he turns towards John's room.

Leaving his boxers on - thanks to a surge of nerves and unaccustomed shyness - he takes a few more deep breaths, allowing their mingling scents sooth and bolster him before, finally, he pads across the hallway and pushes open the door.

oOo

Since he entered his room and positioned himself on the bed John has been pitching between joy and terror so swiftly and completely he's wondering if he should put the lurching in his stomach down to seasickness; although he knows that the knock to this head, which is still aching dully, is probably more likely. He briefly takes his mind off the continued absence of Sherlock by constructing a medically sound argument for what he's been doing and hopes will continue when Sherlock appears, based on the use of adrenaline, endorphins and pheromones as natural alternatives to painkillers and remaining awake being vital given the high possibility that he has concussion.

It doesn't work for long. He knows that he was right to give Sherlock space, to allow him to be the one to take the final step, to make it completely Sherlock's choice to turn a bit of heavy petting into something much more meaningful; mainly because it's very obvious that Sherlock hadn't realised he wanted any of this before tonight.

And John meant what he said earlier. He needs Sherlock to be sure. About everything.

Which is all very well and good but, John acknowledges ruefully, he significantly underestimated how difficult he'd find waiting. Especially with Sherlock loitering in the corridor and, judging by the harsh, rapid breathing and unintelligible muttering he can hear, working himself up to a full blown panic attack. John hadn't actually considered that Sherlock might change his mind completely but now he's starting to accept that it's a viable possibility.

So he thinks he can be excused for grinning like the proverbial loon when Sherlock pushes open the door, his boxer clad form making it very obvious that the final decision has been made and that it's everything John hoped it would be.

'Sherlock,' he breathes, raising himself up on his elbows and shifting so his whole body is turned towards the extraordinary man who is now stock still in the doorway, left hand griping the frame so hard his knuckles are white, right flexing and tensing at his hip, 'Sherlock.'

Sherlock makes a small, indistinct noise in the back of his throat, snags his lip between his teeth, takes a small step into the room but goes no further. His breathing is shallow, his expression is dazed and his eyes … his eyes are flying up and down John's body in exactly the same way as they move over a cadaver at a crime scene. John realises he's being catalogued, reviewed, memorized and, _Jesus,_ how fucked up is he that it's officially the most erotic thing he's ever been subjected to.

'Sherlock,' he says again, this time a little louder, extending his hand and crooking two fingers in invitation as his smile pushes the limits of his face, 'Sherlock … come here.'

Sherlock starts forward but all his grace and athleticism has deserted him, replaced by a hesitant stumbling that John finds unexpectedly endearing.

'John,' he rumbles, halting almost at once, hand outstretched, 'John, I …'

John is off the bed and in front of Sherlock in a second, reaching up and cradling his face between hands that, much to his surprise, are shaking slightly. 'What do you want?' he says as he strokes his thumbs over Sherlock's cheekbones, willing himself to calm down. 'What do you need?'

'You,' is the instant response, Sherlock's hands coming to rest on his waist and tightening almost to the point of pain, 'just you.'

'You have me,' he says firmly, pressing closer, lifting his mouth to Sherlock's, 'you'll always have me.'

'Show me, John ... please.' Sherlock's voice is quivering, as is his body, and for a moment John sees a much younger man looking out of Sherlock's eyes.

And John understands.

Understands the dual meaning in Sherlock's pleading words and knows exactly what Sherlock needs him to do now.

The kiss that follows starts with John's murmur of assent, breathed into a mouth that is trembling with need and uncertainty. It morphs swiftly into a brush of lip on lip that is sublimely soft and achingly gentle, John trying to give Sherlock the kiss he wishes he had received the first time he was taken to bed by someone he hoped would be more than a just another one night stand. He's never been more conscious of his own body, the thrumming of the blood in his veins and the warmth building between them over every tiny patch of skin that they have pressed together. When he traces the plush swell of Sherlock's lower lip with the tip of his tongue Sherlock groans, mouth and body yielding at once and John begins to move backwards, easing them both towards the bed as he dips in and out of Sherlock's mouth, encouraging him to reciprocate.

By the time John's got them onto the bed - a far smoother transition than he thinks he had any right to expect - Sherlock is whimpering brokenly while kissing John back with more passion than John has ever experienced from anyone.

'Wonderful,' John says into Sherlock's mouth, when he once again has control of his tongue, 'you are the most wonderful thing ...'

And the rest of the sentence is lost to a moan as Sherlock's hands slide inside his boxers and begin kneading his arse at the same time as Sherlock's mouth closes round John's ear lobe and sucks. Hard.

'I didn't know,' John pants when his nerve ending have stopped exploding, 'that I liked that.'

'Didn't know I liked any of this,' Sherlock mutters into the damp skin of John's neck before he pulls back, biting his lower lip again before adding, in a barely audible whisper, 'Will you ... my nipples ... like before?'

'God, yes ...' John shifts down so he's straddling Sherlock's upper thighs and then proceeds to kiss, lick, suck and nip until Sherlock is a writhing mess beneath him, the smooth expanse of his chest mottled pink and gleaming with sweat, hands clutching convulsively at John's forearms as he curves upward and moans his pleasure to the ceiling. His uninhibited responsiveness, the way he's giving himself up to the sensations, to John, is beautiful and it ... it's doing things deep inside John that he's never experienced before, never even contemplated. _This_, he thinks as he lifts his head and reaches up to smooth a curl off Sherlock's forehead, _this is what is meant by making love_.

'I want to worship you,' he finds himself saying as Sherlock's eyes open at his touch, locking on John's with a wanton wildness that pulses straight to John's cock, 'Want to kiss every inch of you, stroke every single centimetre, until you'll never forget what my touch feels like. I want to taste you, learn you, find out exactly what noises you make when I'm holding you on the brink and exactly how you sound when you come.'

Sherlock's gasping, eyelids flickering as his hands slide up John's arms and he's levering himself up, fitting their mouths back together.

This kiss is anything but gentle, a battle of teeth and tongues and hands and then it's John's turn to melt as Sherlock starts taking him apart; one lick, one suck, one caress at a time.

'Too many clothes,' Sherlock growls several minutes later and John would laugh, given the only thing either of them still have on are their pants and that's not impeding them much - he's got his fingers curled round Sherlock's cock and Sherlock is returning the favour with enthusiasm - but instead he's disengaging and slipping off the bed; scrambling to comply as fast as he can as Sherlock adds 'Get them off. Now!'

It's the timbre of Sherlock's voice that's done it, making him want to do more than just obey that one command. It's gone straight to his hind brain, flicked the switch marked Omega and suddenly his world has turned upside down.

He's never wanted to be taken before, always needed to be the one in control, the one calling the shots – hence the string of beta lovers he's had - but now he's wrapping himself round Sherlock, babbling at him as he reverses their positions, lying back so Sherlock is the one on top. He's not fully conscious of what he's actually saying but he's aware the general gist is that he wants Sherlock to take him, needs Sherlock's fingers, Sherlock's cock, anything Sherlock will give him; which Sherlock would probably have deduced by the way John's spreading his legs, lifting his hips and taking Sherlock's hand and pressing it to his arse but he can't stop talking all the same.

And Sherlock - wonderful, beautiful, inexperienced Sherlock - is hushing him, feathering kisses across his face, neck and chest, and telling him it's ok, that he's there, that he's going to take care of him.

'Tell me what do, John,' Sherlock demands, kneeling between John's legs and running his hands up and down John's thighs, 'tell me how you want me to do this …'


	3. Chapter 3

The incongruity between the words themselves and the commanding tone in which they've been delivered clears John's head enough for him to give some sensible instructions.

'Lube first,' he says softly, 'it's ...'

'Top drawer. With the condoms. I know.'

'Should I ask how?' he feels his lips quirking as he speaks.

'Logic,' Sherlock retorts and they both giggle a little, John watching Sherlock watching him, sharing a smile for one heart beat, then two, then Sherlock's leaning down, eyes never leaving John's, as he rummages in the bedside cabinet and locates the bottle and a silver packet.

'Let me,' John takes the foil before Sherlock can protest, taking the opportunity to caress Sherlock's cock again, smearing pre-come over the swollen head and down the shaft and watching with a mixture of lust and awe as it thickens further, flushing a deeper red and straining up against the pale, taut skin of Sherlock's belly. By the time he remembers what he's supposed to be doing and begins rolling the condom on Sherlock is keening, hands in a white-knuckle grip of the head board as he fights to stay upright and not thrust into the circle of John's fingers.

'I'm ... you need to stop ...' he pants out as soon as John's completed the task, eyes squeezed tightly shut and throat working convulsively. John releases him immediately, giving himself a few strokes to relieve the insistent pressure of his own erection before he retrieves the lube from where Sherlock abandoned it and clicks the cap open.

'Oh, no you don't,' Sherlock practically snarls, grabbing it and liberally coating his own fingers. 'You said you wanted me.'

'I did,' John agrees, slumping back against the pillows, bending his knees and then letting them drop away so he's spread wide, giving Sherlock full access. The dichotomy of the alpha edge in both Sherlock's voice and gaze set against the hesitancy of Sherlock's hands as they ghost down his inner thighs and over his buttocks is as startling as it is touching and a warmth that it much more than just arousal surges through him. 'And I meant it. I've never wanted anyone to do this to me before but I want this from you, Sherlock. _So much_. I'm giving myself to you and I … I want to feel your fingers circling my hole, pr…. Nnngh … uh, yeah, just like that …. Right there … now start pressing in, ever so gently … uh … teasing me open, touch … by touch until ... uh ... I ... Oh!'

His body jolts and then flexes, tensing and yielding into the push and crook of Sherlock's finger as it moves inside him. He can't seem to get enough air in his lungs, nor he can keep his eyes open for more than a few seconds at a time. He's completely undone by the onslaught of feelings; unable to control the way his hands are gripping and twisting in the sheets or do anything about the fact that his attempts at instruction have degenerated - now two of Sherlock's fingers are inside him - into gasps and panted half sentences.

'Yeah, just … Fuck! Sherlock! ... 'S never felt … this good when I've … I've ... oh fuck, yes! There! …. More … please! More.…'

oOo

He'd thought the sight of John draped on the bed, waiting, just for him, had been the most wonderful thing he'd ever seen but that was quickly subsumed by how John looked when straddling him, eyes devouring and warming in equal measure while he worked hands and mouth, playing Sherlock's body every bit as skilfully as Sherlock plays his violin. Sherlock is used to being noticed but to see in John's face, in every line of John's body, that Sherlock is the centre of John's consciousness, of John's world, is spectacular.

But not even that could stand against how amazing John looks right now, spread out beneath him, compliant, yielding and coming undone because of what he is doing. It's heady and powerful and Sherlock pauses for a moment, desperate to fix this vision of wonder in his mind forever.

'Huh?' John's eyes fly open and lock onto Sherlock's as he wrenches one hand out of the tangle of sheets and reaches out in mute appeal. When Sherlock dips his head and kisses John's fingertips but does not resume his actions John finds his voice. 'Sherlock, please … don't stop. That felt so … Oh! Mmm.'

'Not stopping. Just contemplating,' Sherlock murmurs as he pumps his fingers into John again; once, twice and then pulls them out completely - just for long enough to drizzle extra lube on them - and then presses back in, _oh so slowly_, with three this time. John's breath shatters into hard edged almost-sobs and he arches into the contact; Sherlock momentarily mesmerised by the sight of John stretching round his hand. It is beautiful, seeing John like this; sweat damp skin glowing golden in the light from the street, balls drawing up and cock twitching as it steadily leaks pre-come across his belly thanks to Sherlock's gentle skimming of the edge of his prostate with every other stroke.

John trusts me, Sherlock realises with the suddenness of a lightning strike. He truly trusts me. He isn't sure that anyone - other than Mrs Hudson, who clearly doesn't count because she's decided he's the son she never had - has genuinely, completely trusted him. Ever. And yet here John is - scant hours after Sherlock's failings almost got him killed - giving Sherlock everything; opening himself up mentally and physically, in the full knowledge that Sherlock could hurt him but doing so anyway, because he believes Sherlock won't.

_Gift is right_, Sherlock thinks, bending forward to kiss his way down John's chest, relishing the twitches he produces when he times light nips to the skin on John's navel with each stroke of his thumb over John's perineum, _the most extraordinary gift I'll ever receive_.

'Sh-sherlock,' John stutters, hand coming up to tangle in his hair, 'please …'

'What do you want, John?' Sherlock leans into the touch, lifting his eyes so he can see John's face again. 'What do you need?'

'Inside me … need you inside me.'

'Are you …'

'I'm sure, I … Ah! Fuck that's good!' Sherlock hadn't mean to twist his fingers as he pulled out but after that reaction he repeats the motion. And then does it again, and again, each time changing the angle or the speed or the degree of movement until invectives are falling from John's lips in almost as continual a stream as the come drizzling from his cock. Sherlock leans down, entranced, breathing in the musk-and-salt tang that makes his own ignored erection throb even more painfully, completely enraptured by John and the fact that he is the only person who has ever seen him like this. That this is all for him, all down to him, and he can't help but dip his head and lick his way up John's cock, tasting and nuzzling and suckling and …

'Sherlock stop!' John shouts and Sherlock freezes immediately, chest tightening and throat constricting.

'John, I …' his voice is shaky and he can't find the words, nor can he meet John's eyes.

'It's alright, Sherlock, you haven't done anything wrong,' John pants out, fingers back, reassuringly, in Sherlock's hair. 'Honestly, love, it's all good. In fact it's all pretty amazing.'

Sherlock angles his head so he can examine John out of the corner of his eyes while John keeps talking.

'It was just … Your mouth. I've … oh God, how I've fantasized about you doing that and if I'd let you keep going … well ….' John gives a shaky laugh, 'I'd have come and … I don't want to yet. I-I want you inside me when I do.'

Sherlock can read the truth in John's words from his eyes and his body, never mind the desperation tinged certainty in his voice and he lets his breath out in a rush that leaves him dizzy.

'In that case …' carefully he eases his fingers out of John's hole, watching it twitch and flutter as John whimpers at the loss even as he grasps blindly above his head for a pillow.

'Here,' Sherlock cradles John's arse and lifts, helping him wiggle the pillow into place under his hips. He can't help taking in how tight John's stomach muscles have become, the way John's chest is heaving erratically and noting that his own breathing is similarly ragged.

Carefully, because John isn't the only one right on the edge at this moment, he locates the lube again, douses his hand and then coats his erection once more, groaning with relief at the touch despite the awareness that if it weren't for the latex barrier he would be losing control right now.

'So beautiful, Sherlock,' John growls, planting his feet and rocking his hips in obvious invitation, 'you are so fucking beautiful.'

'Hmm,' Sherlock manages as he considers what he's about to do. 'I … um … I've never …' he waves his hand at the diminishing space between their bodies as he insinuates himself right between John's legs, leaning into the warmth radiating from John's body and pressing his cock against John's arse.

'Me neither,' John says with a wobbly smile, briefly cupping Sherlock's face with his hand before gripping the sheets as he plants his feet and tilts his hips up again. 'But I've been where you are. Go slow … slow as you like. You'll need to guide yourself in.'

'OK. Um …'

John's smile goes soft, 'You're not going to hurt me. I promise. I … I'm so ready for you. And I'll say if it's uncomfortable.'

Sherlock hums his acquiescence, closing his eyes for a moment, trying to centre himself, to prepare for what is to come. He wants this so much it's visceral, this need to be inside John, to connect with John as closely as is physically possible and it's almost overwhelming. For a moment he's held – trembling - in check by his own body as his desire renders him immobile. But then John, _his_ John, with his instinctive ability to understand Sherlock and to know what he needs, pulls him closer, arms comfortingly solid around Sherlock's shoulders and thighs warmly bracketing Sherlock's hips and the spell is broken.

Sucking in a much needed lungful of air – the sight of John almost undone beneath him combined with all these new sensations seems to continually rob him of the ability to breathe - Sherlock shifts his weight to his left arm, brushes a grateful kiss over John's undamaged right shoulder and then slides his right hand between them and down. He lets his fingertips circle John's hole, testing and teasing until he's certain he's no longer about to come from the press of his palm on his erection and John is moaning plaintively and trying to force the issue by hooking his legs round Sherlock's and pressing closer. And then, with an exhalation that seems to come from his toes, he rests the tip of his cock against the - _Oh God that really is exquisite_ – heat of John's hole and begins the slow push in.

oOo

_This is …Oh, fucking hell … this is intense,_ John thinks somewhat haphazardly as Sherlock begins to sink into him and his nerve endings make an attempt to electrify his whole body, _and bloody marvellous_. Sherlock is taking it incredibly slowly but he isn't pausing and the inexorable pressure and stretch he's creating fills John with an aching sweetness that - even without the effect Sherlock's voluble groans of pleasure are having on him as they rumble through his entire body - eclipses every sexual encounter he's ever had.

He knows that he, too, is far from silent; moaning and gasping out Sherlock's name as he clutches at Sherlock's shoulders and tightens his legs round Sherlock's waist in a desperate – and futile, Sherlock is a lot stronger than he looks – attempt to pull him deep inside _now_. But Sherlock is doing this at his own pace, is most definitely the one in control here. The moment John acknowledges that his body yields, muscles relaxing as he melts into the mattress and Sherlock moves with him,

'God, John,' Sherlock pants into his ear as he continues to press in, 'this is … this is … oh, John!'

The final exclamation is made as Sherlock seats himself fully inside and John moans so loudly he half wonders if he can be heard in the street outside. This is nothing like having his fingers inside himself, it's ... he can't find words, he can't think of anything other than how good it feels, how right it is to be this close to Sherlock ... to be filled and taken and ...

'I love you,' he gasps, pressing kisses over every inch of skin he can reach on Sherlock's neck and shoulders, 'I love you, Sherlock.'

'John,' it's more of a breath than a word and suddenly Sherlock's mouth is over his, kissing him with such desperate desire that John doesn't realise, for a moment, that Sherlock's started to move. It's not much, rocking his hips in tiny thrusts that keep them pressed together but somehow, impossibly, pushes him deeper into John each time as well as rubbing John's cock; trapped tightly as it is between their belly's. It's almost too much but at the same time not enough, the fire burning deep but just not quite where he needs it and he's breaking the kiss to keen Sherlock's name and arch up, tilting his hips a fraction until ...

'Fuck! Sherlock, I ... don't stop ... don't you ever stop ... so good! You're so fucking good! I ... I'm ...'

John's consciousness narrows to the throbbing deep inside and, for an instant, he's hanging on by a thread as Sherlock brushes his prostate with every pass and then Sherlock says his name again, so reverently it takes all the breath from his lungs and he's gone; drowning in Sherlock's scent, his touch, his voice and feeling everything, all at once as he starts coming so hard his vision goes white.

When he comes back to himself Sherlock is still moaning his name, over and over like a mantra, body jerking and hips stuttering, 'John! I-I ... Oh God I'm going to ... I ... Jooohn!'

It's more a wail than a word as he pulses inside John, arms giving way as he does and John holds him, kissing his forehead and murmuring reassurances as Sherlock shakes himself apart in his arms. Finally he stills, burrowing his head into the crook of John's neck and tightening his hold round John's torso. Eventually, once they've both calmed enough, they move; Sherlock shifting just enough to pull out and get rid of the condom before curling himself back into John's embrace, head resting against John's chest.

_How did I not know?_ John thinks blearily as exhaustion crashes over him, _how did I not know it could be like this?_

'The same way I didn't,' Sherlock says into his skin and John realises he spoke this thoughts aloud, 'because we didn't know each other before.'

Sherlock wriggles so that he can look up into John's face. His eyes, lit only by the light from the street, are a perfect mix of blue, green and gold that make John think of swathes of stars in the Afghan night sky and they are looking at him with such awe John wonders if it is possible to die from having a heart so full of love and joy you can barely think.

'I meant it,' he says at last, pulling Sherlock closer, 'I love you.'

Sherlock doesn't reply, just blinks solemnly several times before brushing a kiss over John's mouth and then burying his face in John's chest again, body still trembling slightly.

John smiles into the night and then closes his eyes. Sherlock may not be ready to say the words but he doesn't need to. That he's here, in John's arms, is enough.


End file.
